The sleeper behind the thick green curtains stirred again and became conscious, as in many days past, of her heavy burden of sorrow. Always at first waking the realization of it sat upon her as though it would crush the life from her body. Lying still with bated breath, she fought back waking consciousness as she had learned to do in the last three months, yet knew it to be futile while she was doing it. The sun shot up between the bars of crimson, like a topaz on a lady’s gown that crowns the whole beautiful costume. The piercing, jewelled light lay across the white face, touched the lips with warm fingers, and the troubled soul knew all that had passed. She lay quiet, letting the torrent sweep over her with its sickening realization. She was married! It was over--with the painful parting from dear ones. She was off away from them all. The new life she so dreaded had begun, and how was she to face it--the life with one whom she feared and did not respect? How could she ever have done it but for the love of her dear ones? Gradually she came to remember the night before--the parting with her mother and her brother; the little things that brought the tears again to her eyes. Then all was blankness. She must have fainted. She did not often faint, but it must be--yes, she remembered opening her eyes and seeing men’s faces about her, and George--could it have been George?--with a kinder look in his eyes than she had ever thought to see there. Then she must have fainted again--or had she? No, some one had lifted her into this berth, and she had drunk something and had gone to sleep. What had happened? Where was everybody? It was good to have been left alone. She grudgingly gave her unloved husband a fragment of gratitude for not having tried to talk to her. In the carriage on the way he had seemed determined to begin a long argument of some kind. She did not want to argue any more. She had written tomes upon the subject, and had said all she had to say. He was not deceived. He knew she did not love him, and would never have married him but for her mother’s sake and for the sake of her beloved father’s memory. What was the use of saying more? Let it rest. The deed was done, and they were married. Now let him have his way and make her suffer as he chose. If he would but let her suffer in silence and not inflict his bitter tongue upon her, she would try to bear it. And perhaps--oh, perhaps, she would not live long, and it would soon be all over. As the daylight grew, the girl felt an inclination to find out whether her husband was near. Cautiously she lifted her head, and, drawing back a corner of the curtain, peered out. He lay quietly on the couch, one hand under his cheek against the pillow, the other across his breast, as if to guard something. He was in the still sleep of the overwearied. He scarcely seemed to be breathing.